Thursday, September 1, 2011

Play’s the Thing:

Although
Molière, Jean Racine, and Pierre Corneille are often thought of as the greatest
French literary artists of the late seventeenth century, their extraordinary
plays standing as what we now think of as “Classical” French theater, it was the
shrewd fable-writer Jean de La Fontaine who produced perhaps the richest body
of work of his period. Both his lexicon and his vast array of influences dwarf
those of his contemporaries, and his varied and innovative use of rhyme schemes
influenced nearly every poet on the continent, including the later Russian poet
Alexander Pushkin, whose famous Eugene Onegin stanza can be found in
several places in La Fontaine’s fables. The trouble is that it’s nearly impossible
to find a serious edition of La Fontaine’s fables in English. Even in France
most editions are geared toward children and contain only the most simple and
facile samples of his work, and the English translations almost uniformly
transform his ingenious rhythms into sing-song nursery rhymes that lose nearly
all of the fables’ wit and subtlety. As with Vladimir Nabokov’s literal
translation of Eugene Onegin, La Fontaine—along with all other poets—requires
an unrhymed translation, and after searching for years for a suitable edition,
chance handed me a first-rate dual-language version published, surprisingly, as
a Dover Books original.

Edited and translated by Stanley
Appelbaum, who provides an excellent introduction, helpful notes to the fables,
and an exceptionally thorough key to La Fontaine’s sources—which range from
Aesop to Aristotle to Horace to the Desert Fathers to Rabelais, as well as to
any number of fifteenth- and sixteenth-century fable-writers and
fable-collectors who’d brought tales from as far away as India and Persia and
Java—this edition is an ideal (if too short) introduction to La Fontaine for
both the serious and casual English reader.

Hyacinthe Rigaud’s portraitof Jean de La Fontaine, 1690

Culling seventy-five of the most
famous and artistically significant fables from La Fontaine’s long career—he
wrote 244 fables in all, filling several books over the course of a quarter of
a century—Appelbaum’s edition of the Selected Fables offers an excellent
sampling of the poet’s evolving and ever-widening approach to the genre.
Opening with the well-known “The Cicada and the Ant,” La Fontaine’s version of
Aesop’s “The Grasshopper and the Ant”—a fable that Nabokov hilariously
plays with in his 1962 novel Pale Fire—the
collection spends only a short number of pages on the early period of fables
that most other editions focus on entirely. “The Crow and the Fox,” “The City Rat
and the Country Rat,” The Wolf and the Lamb,” and “The Lion and the Rat” are
known by practically everyone and require no explanation other than to say that
they’re all more incisive and revealing in literal translation than they are in
any watered-down retelling or retooling. La Fontaine examines human nature with
an acute eye, and his use of animals in our place allows him to be as direct a
commentator on the way we live our lives as any philosopher or essayist. In
fact, the animal-skins that he places over our actions perhaps allow him to
penetrate even farther into our foolishness and greed and cruelty than he could
have if he’d have been writing in a different genre. La Fontaine relied heavily
on patronage, but he was never well liked by Louis XIV, and some of his best
fables—from all periods of his career—explore the uses and abuses of power,
with lions and lambs and rats standing in our exposed and uneasy stead.

His fables growing in length,
complexity, and scope, La Fontaine takes on increasingly ambitious challenges
as he progresses, both in terms of form and content. His meta-fable “The Power
of Fables” addresses contemporary relations between France and England by way
of ancient Athens and Macedonia, and in the process he illustrates the spells that
fables can cast on us as they blind us to the true dangers of the world, thus
enchanting the reader with his own spell while revealing the trick and negating
his own purpose and importance. Digging deeper, his “Discourse to Madame de la
Sablière” brilliantly refutes Descartes’ theory that animals don’t possess the
same form of intelligence as human beings, with the fable-within-a-fable “The
Two Rats, the Fox, and the Egg” holding an interior mirror up to an example of
animal ingenuity that easily rivals our own and that makes us recognize
ourselves in even the most seemingly primitive creatures.

J.J. Grandville’s illustration of“The Cicada and the Ant,” 1938

Going so far as to raise the animals
that populate his fables to our own qualitative rank, La Fontaine attains to
the level of philosophy while at the same time decentralizing the human mind
that creates philosophy—an ouroboros much like the self-negating “The Power of
Fables.” But as in “The Power of Fables,” La Fontaine’s fables are often as
much about reveling in the pleasures and diversions of human and animal nature
as they are about the profound reflection found in them. This lightness of play
keeps him from falling into turgid sophistry, and combined with his poetic
brilliance, his playfulness raises his fables onto a stage easily on par with
the great playwrights of his day. “The world is old, people say, and I believe
it,” La Fontaine writes. “All the same/It still needs to be entertained like a
child.”